The Only Man He Could Ever Love
by Anonymoustache
Summary: Sherlock is forced to go solo on a case when John isn't available. However, Sherlock underestimates a criminal during the chase, and because of a prank gone wrong months ago John ignores Sherlock's call for help. Now, John must deal with his immense guilt and try to recover the relationship he had with the only man he could ever love.
1. The Weight Of Silence

A/N; This was a little oneshot that just completely spun out of control. It's about time I started a new series, I suppose :)

Reviews are love! And Mycroft gets a piece of cake for every review!

Ta,

-Anonymoustache

* * *

"Okay…Thank you, Lestrade. Yes, we'll be there soon. Okay. Goodbye."

Sherlock hung up the phone and jumped off the sofa. Finally! The criminal world had been so _boring_ lately. But a brutal triple murder? That was definitely worth the wait.

"John! John, come on! We have a case!" he yelled as he pulled on his coat and began to do up the buttons.

"Go ahead! See you later!" John yelled.

Sherlock stopped and frowned. "Aren't you coming?"

John poked his head out of his room. "I've told you about five times, Sherlock; I'm going down to the pub with my rugby mates tonight. We've been planning it for weeks now!"

"…Oh." Sherlock looked confused. "But…what will I do? I need an assistant."

"You'll get along fine, Sherlock. I don't do that much. Take your skull; he'll probably be more useful than me."

Sherlock shook his head. "No…there's no one who can take your place, John."

John walked out of his room, straightening his thin black jumper. He dropped a kiss on Sherlock's cheek and rubbed his silky brown curls. "That might just be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

John walked into the kitchen and began to make a cup of tea. He opened the sugar bowl and swore, alarmed at the contents. "Jesus, Sherlock! Toes in the sugar bowl? God…you could at least have taken the sugar out first!"

Sherlock buttoned the last button on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck, turning up his coat the way he always did. "Experiment. Don't move it!"

Sherlock darted out the door and down to the street before John could say anything in response.

* * *

_Three Hours Later_

The case had been painfully transparent, Sherlock thought as he ran down the alley in pursuit of the criminal. The murdered women had a rather obvious connection in that their murderer had dated all three at some point in his life. James Tallner was supposed to be on medication for schizophrenia, but had stopped taking the pills and disappeared, according to his parents, whom he lived with.

He skidded to a stop at the end of the alley. Tallner was nowhere in sight.

Sherlock swore. He was right behind him all the way…so where was he now?

Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his side. Sherlock fell to his knees. He reached a trembling hand up to his side and felt a knife. He yanked it out and it fell to the ground with a gentle click.

His hands began to shake as scarlet blood forming a swirling pool on the pavement.

Sherlock yanked off his scarf and pressed it to the wound, trying to prevent the blood loss. It was a very accurate stab, he would give them that; it had missed any major internal organs, therefore preventing an almost instant death. Instead, he would most likely bleed out. Very slowly.

If someone didn't find him, he would die.

The world had never seemed so silent. It was a weighty silence, like the feeling before a storm. The stab was filling Sherlock's head with white noise, blocking out his deductions.

But it was precise; too precise for just an ordinary mugger. Besides, his wallet was still in his coat pocket. He pressed the scarf harder against his side, trying to numb the pain, and spoke in a low voice. "Why did you kill them, Tallner?"

A man stepped out of the shadows next to him and laughed. "I  
was wondering how long it would take you to figure out I was still here." He looked down at Sherlock and kicked him right in the knife wound, knocking him to the ground. "The great Sherlock Holmes, taken down by a single stab."

Sherlock groaned. The pain was so intense.

"They ruined my life. Broke my heart." Tallner snarled. "They deserved to die."

Sherlock looked up. "No one deserves to die. Not like that."

Tallner grinned. "You're going to, though. And I bet you deserve it more than anyone else."

He leaned down and picked up the knife, observing it casually. "I've heard things about you, Sherlock Holmes. There's many names for you here on the streets, d'you know that? Freak, sociopath, psycho-detective…even the virgin," he said softly.

Sherlock shivered, eyes wide with an indescribable emotion.

Tallner laughed softly. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to change that last one. You're not really my type, Mr. Holmes, if you know what I mean," he winked.

He stood and paced in a circle around him. "I know that I'm _your_ type, though. That was another one. You're not just the virgin, you're the gay boy, too. Did you know that?" He flicked the knife at a wine barrel, where it stuck, still vibrating from the throw. "Heard you even have a boyfriend."

"Shut up." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He had thirty minutes, at best; after that, he was a goner.

"You know, you're not as smart as all the press and the former clients make you out to be." Tallner said calmly, going over and pulling the knife away from the wine barrel. He twirled it in his fingers. "I mean, look at you! Lying there on the ground, dying, bleeding out, slowly…all because of me." He grinned. "Ain't I special?"

"The joke's on you, Tallner…" Sherlock muttered.

The smile slid off of Tallner's face. "What?"

Sherlock pulled his phone out from behind his back. "Pride cometh before a fall, Mr. Tallner. And _you_ have just fallen." He triumphantly pressed Send.

* * *

John's phone buzzed just as Thomas was telling the punchline of an entertaining joke. He blushed as all the eyes at the table turned to him.

"Girlfriend must be getting a bit antsy, huh, mate?" said Daniel, giving John a friendly shove.

"Um, yeah…probably." John said, deciding that now was not the time for the I'm-dating-a-boy talk. He pulled out his phone and surreptitiously checked it under the table as Thomas went into another joke to distract everyone.

_Stabbed in an alleyway half an hour from Baker Street; come get me_.

John, strangely enough, felt anger rising inside him. He remembered, quite suddenly, last April fool's day, when he had gone to the pub with these same mates he had there now. Sherlock had texted him something like this, and John had come running. However, when he got there Sherlock was fine.

Lestrade had told him to prank John, that was Sherlock's excuse. John was still _not happy _at all about it.

He rolled his eyes. If Sherlock really thought that would work twice, he had another thing coming.

_Nice try, Sherlock. But I'm not falling for that one again._

There. Straight and to the point. John smirked. Sherlock wouldn't think him stupid now. He put his phone on silent and went back to the conversation at hand.


	2. The Guilt Of The Rescuers

Tallner lunged for Sherlock and grabbed the phone, knocking the detective to the ground. Sherlock gasped as his wound hit the pavement and pressed the bloody scarf hard into his side, biting his lip at the intense pain.

Tallner searched desperately through his sent texts. He found the one Sherlock had just sent. It was to a John Watson. _Stabbed in an alleyway half an hour from Baker Street; come get me_.

Tallner walked over to Sherlock and loomed over him. "Who is John Watson?" he yelled. Sherlock didn't reply. Tallner kicked the wounded man in the side again, earning a hoarse yell of pain. "Who is he?" Tallner screamed.

"My…my boyfriend." Sherlock whispered.

Suddenly, the phone buzzed. Incoming Text, the screen read.

Tallner slid the lock and opened the text. He read it and laughed cruelly. "Well, your _boyfriend _doesn't care for you much, does he?"

Tallner held the phone up in front of Sherlock's face for him to read the text.

Something inside Sherlock died when he read it.

_Nice try, Sherlock. But I'm not falling for that one again._

Shit. Sherlock never should have pranked John last April fool's day.

Tallner threw down the phone. "You're a fool, Sherlock Holmes. That's what I want you to die knowing; you are a fool. Nothing more."

Suddenly, at the opposite end of the alley, a figure appeared. As it got closer, Sherlock recognized it as Greg Lestrade, holding a gun, with his whole team behind him.

Tallner grabbed Sherlock by the collar, agitating his wound again, and held the bloody knife to his throat. "Don't move!" he shouted.

Greg stopped running and put his hands in the air.

"Greg…" Sherlock rasped. "Just let…let me die…" he coughed and spat blood onto the pavement.

Greg's eyes went wide. Sherlock never called him Greg. He decided to try negotiations first. "Okay, Tallner. Let him go, and you can go free. Otherwise, we're taking you down to the station and booking you for the murder of Sherlock Holmes."

Tallner pressed the knife closer against Sherlock's throat. "I want more than my freedom, copper."

Greg sighed and scratched his head. "Okay. Okay. What do you want?"

Tallner stepped forward, dragging Sherlock with him. He earned a moan of protest from the wounded detective. "Four hundred quid, even. Unmarked. To be delivered to this address." He dug into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

Greg took the paper from his hands and read it. He stuck it in his pocket. "Deal. Now let him go."

Tallner got a mischievous look on his face. "Oh, I don't think so. You see, what guarantee do I have that you're going to deliver the money?"

"You have my word as a policeman." Greg said seriously.

Tallner shook his head. "I've known too many policemen. No, Mr. Holmes is going to come with me. Then, when the money's delivered, you'll get your little pet detective back."

Greg smiled ruefully. "No. I think we'll get him back right now."

Tallner felt something bash into his head and fell to the ground, unconscious.

Sally stood behind him, shaky hands still holding the trash can lid aloft. Sherlock slumped forward, nearly unconscious.

"Thanks, Sally." Greg said as he rushed forward to Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock…can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered. "Of course I can hear you, you idiot. My hearing wasn't affected, thank you."

Greg laughed at Sherlock's wit, though he was actually very concerned about how weak Sherlock's voice was. "Sherlock…what exactly did he do to you?"

Sherlock's hands were trembling. He gripped Greg's wrist, unable to speak, and pulled his hand down to the scarf pressed against his side.

Greg touched it and was alarmed by the amount of blood on it. "Sally, call an ambulance."

Sally gaped. "What happened?" she gasped.

"He's been stabbed." He looked up at her. "Now!" he urged.

She pulled out her phone and dialed 999 while Greg applied pressure to Sherlock's side.

After a few minutes, she hung up. "They'll be here any minute."

"Good," Greg said. "Now come over here and apply pressure to this while I call Mycroft."

Sally kneeled down and took Greg's place. "Who's Mycroft?" she asked while pressing the scarf into Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock's older brother." Greg said. He dialed the number and waited for him to pick up.

Sherlock was gasping for breath. "Sally…" he whispered.

Sally looked down at him, the man she had called a freak so many times…the man who was now dying in front of her. "What, Sherlock?" she asked tenderly, trying to make up for so many insults and names she had tagged him with over the years.

"Tell John…tell John I love him…" he whispered.

Sally let out a thin sob. "You can tell him yourself. You're going to be fine, Sherlock!" she said desperately.

"He…he doesn't know about…about this. Tell him…it wasn't his fault. Will you do this for me?" he asked urgently.

Sally nodded, too overcome to speak. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock's eyes closed.

Sally yelped. "Sherlock?" she looked up at Greg, on the phone with Mycroft. "Lestrade, he's unconscious!"

Greg leaned down quickly and slapped Sherlock. "Come on, mate…" he said quietly, "Wake up…"

Sherlock sucked in a breath and began to shake violently, eyes never opening.

Greg took his pulse. "He's still breathing," he said. "Just make sure he keeps breathing."

Finally, they heard sirens getting closer, and the ambulance pulled up next to the alley.

The rest of the time passed strangely, as if they were observing it from far away, like watching a movie. It was like they weren't there.

The paramedics got Sherlock onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. With promises to meet Greg and Sally at the hospital, the emergency vehicle drove away, siren lights flashing into the darkness of early twilight.

They walked to the police car and got in, moving robotically, numb from what they had witnessed. For several minutes, they sat there, unable to speak, or even move, consumed by the guilt of what had happened to Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.


	3. The Humanity Of A Great Man

"He didn't deserve that." Sally whispered. "I hate him. But no one deserves to be stabbed, not like that."

"I know." Greg sighed. Then, something occurred to him. "Why didn't he text John? And more to the point, why wasn't John with him?"

"He's at the pub with some mates of his from school, apparently," Sally said, "He told me he was looking forward to it last week while Sherlock was looking at those bodies from the Addington case."

Greg frowned. "But why wouldn't he have texted John?"

"Maybe he did, and John didn't respond." Sally pulled Sherlock's phone out of her pocket.

Greg gasped. "Where did you get it?"

"Tallner dropped it." She flipped through Sherlock's sent messages. "Here!" she handed the phone to Greg.

_Stabbed in an alleyway half an hour from Baker Street; come get me_.

"Okay…" Greg muttered. He clicked on the received folder. Sally leaned over so she could see it too.

_Nice try, Sherlock. But I'm not falling for that one again._

Sally gasped. "Oh my god."

"Jesus." Greg said. He put the phone down gingerly on the dashboard and put his head in his hands. "Christ. Why would he…"

And then Greg remembered _it_.

A while back, Sherlock had been working on a serial case; a right nasty one, confusing as hell with hardly any connection. Greg had somehow found out that Sherlock didn't know about April Fool's Day, and had told him about it.

"It's the one day you can prank John and get away with it," he had joked.

He really should have known better.

Sherlock had sent John a text saying he had been stabbed. John had rushed home, panicked, to find Sherlock experimenting on his favorite jumper. Sherlock had shown him where he had pricked himself with a pin. _Stabbed_ was the word he used.

John was so pissed that, according to Sherlock, he had withheld sex for a _month_.

"It's because of the prank thing," Greg said heavily. Sally let out an 'oh' of recognition. Greg had told her about it after it happened.

"We have to call John," Sally said gently. "He'll feel like shit when he finds out, but it's better to tell him now than have to have him find out through a third party."

"You're right," Greg said. He pulled out his phone and dialed John's number. It rang and rang and rang…

"No answer," Greg said. He swore. "He must have turned it off or something when Sherlock texted. He was probably pretty pissed."

"He said…" Sally thought for a moment. "I think it was that pub about a half an hour from the Yard…Twin Gates?"

"Yeah…" Greg said. "Okay, let's drop our friend here at the station," he said, gesturing to Tallner, unconscious in the backseat, "and then we'll get over there and tell him."

Sally nodded.

Greg started up the car and they began to drive in silence.

Sally wished she could distract her mind. She felt the weight of guilt resting on her, for all those times she had unthinkingly called Sherlock a freak, and a psychopath, and any other thing she felt like saying.

She unlocked his phone again and looked at the messages again. She suddenly noticed that the drafts folder had unsent messages in it. Feeling curious, she tapped it, only to have a notice come up saying that it was a locked folder. It had a passcode and a small button that said Hint in small, neat letters.

She tapped the hint button and a small speech box came up.

_Boyfriend 90% Composition_

What? Sally thought for a moment. "Greg…" she said.

"What?" he said blankly, trying to concentrate on the traffic jam they were now in.

"Boyfriend 90% Composition is the hint to the passcode on Sherlock's locked folder. What do you think he means?"

Greg thought for a moment. "Well, his boyfriend is John…how many letter is the passcode?"

"Five."

"So, the first part might be John's initials." Greg thought. "But the next part…90% Composition…well, what do we know that's got a 90% composition of something?"

Sally stiffened as a thought popped into her head. "What if…what if it's 90% of something _John's_ composed of?"

Greg nodded enthusiastically. "Of course! But…what would it be?"

Sally thought for a moment, then suddenly snapped her fingers. "That's it! The human body is made up of 90% _water_!"

"Brilliant!" Greg said. "But how…"

"This is Sherlock we're dealing with, right?" Sally said. "He loves chemical formulae! So it must be…"

"…John's initials and the chemical formula for water!" Greg exclaimed. "That's brilliant!"

Sally typed JWH20 into the passcode box. The phone beeped and accepted it.

It was then that Sally realized, however many times she saw Sherlock, she would never really know him.

Greg leaned over, keeping one eye on the road. "What's in it?"

"It's…it's texts," she whispered. "To all of us."

Greg stiffened. "Is there one for me?"

She clicked on one that said Greg Lestrade. "Do…do you want me to read it?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes." Greg said, carefully.

"Okay…here's what it says…"

**_Lestrade, Greg_**

_You've always been like a father to me. You are my role model; in fact, you're one of the reasons I stopped doing drugs. Thank you for being there for me._

Greg's hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were completely white. He faced forward, back ramrod straight for a few minutes. Then, he let out a strangled yell and hit the steering wheel, setting off the horn and causing all the other drivers to stare.

Sally laid a gentle hand on Greg's arm. "Calm down. He's going to be fine."

She went back to the Drafts folder and opened the rest of the messages.

**_Hooper, Molly_**

_You've always counted, and I've always trusted you. I may not be nice sometimes, but rest assured that it's all for your protection, because of how much I care for you._

**_Hudson, Martha_**

_Thank you for being the mother that I never had. You can always make me feel better, no matter what happens. I only wish I could protect you with everything I have._

**_Anderson_**

_You're smarter than you think. Use that brain, and you'll be just fine._

**_Dimmock_**

_You'll have a glittering career. Think things through, always._

Sally couldn't read the one to John. It felt too much like an invasion of privacy.

Finally, she clicked the last file. Her file.

The message had just four powerful words.

**_Donovan, Sally_**

_You're forgiven. For everything._

She bit down on her lip. Tears spilled from her eyes.

Greg kept looking straight forward. "Once upon a time, I called him a good man. I said that someday he might even be a great one," he rasped.

Sally nodded, crying too hard to speak.

"I think the transition from good to great happened without anyone noticing." Greg whispered.

The unspoken words hung in the air between them, shining like dust in the sunlight.

_Sherlock Holmes is more human than anyone believes him to be._


	4. The Love Of A Brother

"And so then, he just walks into the bar and says, 'Well, I guess I'll have milk, then'."

Everyone at the table burst out laughing, John included. "Tom, you're the king of horrible jokes, you know that?" John said, gasping for air.

Suddenly, Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan appeared out of nowhere next to the table.

"John." Greg said curtly.

John sighed. "Look, Inspector, I'm a bit busy, so if this is about Sherlock being alone on the case, can we just save it for some other time?" After all, John thought, Sherlock may be his boyfriend, but he had a life on the side.

"Oh, it's about Sherlock, all right. He's been stabbed."

John's world seemed to collapse around him as he struggled for air. The entire table fell silent.

Stabbed? But…John pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped through his messages.

**Received Messages**

**_Sherlock Holmes_**

_Stabbed in an alleyway half an hour from Baker Street; come get me._

**Sent Messages**

**_John Watson_**

_Nice try, Sherlock. But I'm not falling for that one again._

_Oh, God. John, you bastard._

"John…" Sally said sadly. "It isn't your fault."

"Jesus…" John swore. "Oh…my God. When he sent that text…I thought…oh my God. I can't…"

He staggered to his feet, his mates watching in alarm. "Where is he?" he asked hoarsely.

"He's at Bart's," said Greg. "John…Sally's right, it isn't your fault…"

"But it is!" John yelled. "Don't you see? He texted me, told me…but I didn't…didn't even believe him…oh god…"

"John." Greg planted his hands on John's shoulders, then supported him as his knees gave out. "It isn't your fault," he said sternly.

"Gotta…get to Bart's. Right now." John rasped, straightening up and stumbling towards the door.

"Okay, okay." Greg said. He followed John. Sally held him back.

"Greg…are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked hesitantly. "Maybe we should take him home for a bit…y'know, let him have a rest, see how Sherlock feels about it…"

"Sally, do you see the man?" Greg asked, exasperated. He gestured towards John, who was now attempting to call a cab and having no success. "There's no way we'll keep him away from Sherlock unless we use armed guards and an elephant sedative."

Sally sighed, resigned. "Okay."

Greg ran out after John, Sally following soon after, leaving John's rugby mates to stare blankly at the seat their friend had vacated just moments ago, trying to figure out who the hell Sherlock was and why he had so much effect on their friend.

"How did it happen?"

Greg gripped the steering wheel tightly to keep from screaming. "He was chasing the suspect and didn't wait for backup, as usual. James Tallner proved to be very wily…as well as foolish. You owe his life to Sally. She hit the bastard over the head with a bin lid."

John nodded at the sergeant. "Thanks," he said, his voice quiet.

She nodded back, unable to speak.

They rode in silence.

Finally, they arrived at Bart's. John ran in as fast as he possibly could. Greg headed towards the doors, only to see that Sally wasn't following. "Aren't you coming?"

Sally bit her lip. "I should probably go back to the station and do the paperwork, shouldn't I?"

Greg nodded, eyes closing momentarily. "You're right. It has to get done sometime." He sighed. "Thanks, Sally. You were really quite brilliant this evening."

He turned towards the door, heading in.

Sally walked back to the car at a leisurely pace. For so long, she had hated Sherlock. In her eyes, he had been a freak, a psychopath, a weirdo; nothing more. But John had been right all along, she mused.

She flashed back to the words Sherlock had said as Greg reasoned with Tallner.

_Just let me die._

Most people would see Sherlock's utterance as a sign of weakness. However, Sally knew better.

He was telling them to let Tallner kill him so that they could arrest him when he was done.

To die in the name of justice.

In those few moments, Sally had realized she'd been wrong about him all along.

He wasn't a psychopath.

He was a hero.

"I need to see Sherlock Holmes."

The nurse looked at John, troubled by his appearance and the obvious smell of alcohol about his person. "I'm sorry, sir, he's still in surgery. He won't be out for another hour or two."

"Tell me what happened," he rasped, eyes wide.

The nurse glanced over at Greg uneasily. He held up a police badge. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade." He stepped forward and shook the nurse's hand. "The patient Sherlock Holmes was injured while helping on one of my cases. This is his doctor, flatmate, and, as you can probably tell by his slight agitation, his boyfriend."

"Ah," he said, now more at ease about giving information. "Well, sir, if you'll just step this way, we'll get you both some coffee and a chair and then I can explain."

John and Greg followed him into the waiting area, helping themselves to disgusting hospital coffee and two not-so-comfortable plastic chairs.

The nurse hung around them, looking slightly uncomfortable.

John looked up at him. "You're new here, aren't you?"

He made a face. "Does it show that much?"

John shrugged. "A bit." He nodded encouragingly. "S'okay, I trained here, too."

The nurse relaxed. "I'm just nervous, I suppose."

"What's your name?"

"Derek. Derek O'Leary."

John leaned back. "Well, suppose you start by explaining the injury and concerns surrounding it, Derek."

"Okay." Derek took a deep breath. "He's got a single stab wound to his right side. Our major concerns at this moment are blood loss, shock, and infection, all three of which are being dealt with. He'll be in surgery for at least another hour; at most, two."

John nodded encouragingly. It seemed that the original shock John had so deeply succumbed to had worn off. Greg was impressed by his current control. "Okay. And were there any minor or major problems at any time?"

"Yes. Mr. Holmes has a very unique blood type, as you might be aware. We didn't have any of his blood type on hand…"

"Until I showed up and was able to save my dear brother's life."

Mycroft Holmes appeared at the entrance to the waiting room, gripping his umbrella and looking as calm as ever. "Evening, John. Hello, Gregory dear."

"Hey, Mickey."

John choked on his coffee. "_Mickey_? And _Gregory dear_?"

"What?" Greg asked defensively.

"Are you two _dating_?"

Mycroft laughed, a twinkle in his eye. "Is it hard to believe?"

John thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, actually. It isn't."

Mycroft looked down at his umbrella, twirling it between his fingertips. "Gregory alerted me to the fact that my brother had been victim of a rather unpleasant stabbing, and I immediately left for this hospital to ensure that he had a copious supply of replacement blood."

He turned to Greg. "We need to speak. In private. There have been…developments…on the Thoborough case."

Greg nodded solemnly. "Right. John…just; don't do anything stupid, okay? Sherlock needs you, now more than ever."

John laughed hollowly. "What did you think? That I was going to go kill myself?"

Greg winced. "Well…"

"No, Greg. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here and I'm going to deal with the problems I created for myself."

Greg nodded carefully. "If you need to talk…"

"Okay." John looked away, not trusting himself to say more.

Greg rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Right then…I'll just…go…"

He headed out the door, feeling awkward and desperately hoping that Mycroft had brought him a beer or something equally mind-drowning.


	5. The Sunrise Of Sherlock Holmes

A/N; Welcome to the end :)

Yes, I know it's rather abrupt, but I just felt like this was a very good, natural ending. Don't worry, though, it's happy and full of fluffy feels :D

Once again, thank you to every single reviewer, follower, favoriter, and reader. _You_ are why I do this.

Enjoy! Reviews are to me what cake is to Mycroft…the reason the world turns ;)

Ta,

-Anonymoustache

* * *

"Excuse me, sir…"

John's eyes flew open and his head snapped up. "Wha…" He saw that it was Derek, the nurse, and sprang to the alert. "How is he?"

Derek sat down next to John. "He's awake. And he wants to see you," he said with a big smile.

John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank god." He stood up. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

He stood up too quickly and instantly regretted it. His head was spinning with a horrible hangover and his back ached from sleeping in the hard plastic chair.

John carefully shook his head like a dog shedding water. Derek stared at him, concerned. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yes." John said in a low voice, trying not to worsen his headache. "Just…bit of a hangover."

Derek nodded sagely. "I understand, Dr. Watson." He turned and began to head down the hall. "Mr. Holmes is just down this way."

John nodded and winced when the motion made his head spin. "Okay," he whispered.

Finally, they came to a nice, private room near the end of the hallway. Obviously Mycroft had a hand in Sherlock's room choice.

Derek held open the door. "Visiting hours end in about three hours, but if you really want to stay I'm sure I can work it out, sir." He winked. "I've heard many entertaining stories about the two of you."

"Thanks," John said gratefully. He ducked under Derek's outstretched arm into the room. Just as the door was about to close he quickly turned back around.

"Derek."

The nurse turned back towards John. "Yes, sir?"

"You'll go far here."

Derek nodded. "Thank you, sir. And my best wishes for Mr. Holmes's recovery." He smiled, and with that turned and walked down the hallway towards the waiting area.

John sighed. He had been like that once; young and bright, with his whole life before him. These days he felt old and dim, as though life had finally taken its toll on him.

He turned and slipped through the doorway, not looking back.

* * *

Sherlock was lying peacefully in a clean white-sheeted hospital bed, IV attached to the crook of his elbow. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be asleep.

John carefully dragged an armchair up next to Sherlock's bed and sat down, waiting patiently for the detective to wake up.

Several minutes later, after John had finished counting the floor tiles for the umpteenth time, Sherlock spoke.

"Bored yet?"

John looked up at the injured detective. "Sherlock?" he exclaimed. "I thought you were asleep, you utter wanker!"

"Sleeping…sleeping's boring, John. How's Mycroft?"

"You know, that could be the first time I've ever heard you voluntarily asking after your brother."

Sherlock shot John a frank look. "He did save my life," he said pointedly.

John winced. "I know," he whispered, ashamed.

Sherlock didn't reply for a few moments, brow furrowed in concentration, staring at John's face. Finally, he spoke with an air of achievement. "Ah. You feel guilty."

"No shit, Sherlock." John said miserably.

"John." Sherlock said. He gently took John's hands in his own. "This was not, in any way, your fault."

"But it was! Sherlock, you tried to tell me, and I…I was just pigheaded and prideful and I didn't listen, and you were _dying_ and I did nothing…"

Sherlock broke off John's statement. "Did _you_ stab me?"

John raised an eyebrow. "What? No!"

"Did you follow me down that alley?"

"No!"

Sherlock leveled his eyes with John's. "Then how is any of this your fault?"

"I should have saved you!" John blurted out. "I should have taken you seriously, should have actually _listened_…"

"John!" Sherlock shouted hoarsely. John quieted, shocked.

"I'm going to say this one more time, and I want you _to_ listen."

Sherlock squeezed his lover's hands.

"This was not your fault."

John's shoulders slumped. "I…I'm sorry, Sherlock. I…I just feel awful."

"I know, John," Sherlock said. "It's called survivor's guilt. Quite a fascinating psychological complex, actually."

The conversation lapsed into a still silence.

"John?"

John looked up from the floor. "What, 'Lock?"

"This doesn't change my feelings for you."

"At all."

John nodded. "I know, Sherlock."

Silence.

"John?"

"What, Sherlock?"

"I love you."

"Love you too."

* * *

"Do you think they'll be okay?"

Mycroft nodded primly. "Of course they will, Gregory. It's quite inevitable. They were made for each other."

Greg nodded.

He turned back to the window in the cafeteria and took a sip of his coffee.

_Disgusting._

The sun was rising outside.

Everything was going to be okay.


End file.
